


...Answers

by miss_grey



Series: What We Do In The Dark [32]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bad headspace, Demons, Depression, Emotional Hurt/No Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, Multi, Sharing Clothes, Supernatural AU - Freeform, witch gene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 00:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20479796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: "So,” Babe said, clearing his throat nervously.  “Demons.”Gene nodded.  “Yep.”Babe snorted.  “Come on, Gene.  You said you’d tell me.”Gene’s brows pulled down, concerned.  “You sure you wanna know?”





	...Answers

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter so many have been waiting for. Enjoy :)

It was hard to remember that most people saw Gene as an intimidating, super-powerful witch when he perched across from Babe in the café, sipping his coffee and taking delicate bites of his bagel with cream cheese. His lean figure was shrouded by the bulk of one of Babe’s hoodies and Gene’s arms practically drowned in the sleeves so that only the tips of his fingers poked out, seeking warmth from where they pressed against the side of the ceramic mug. 

When they’d finally ventured outside after nearly two days of lounging around the house, Gene had wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, and Babe wasn’t about to allow that to continue. So he’d dragged Gene back upstairs and given him Babe’s favorite green hoodie to wear. It was too big for him, but Gene didn’t complain, instead snuggling into it with a genuine grin on his face and admitting “I don’t even own anythin’ this warm—it never gets this cold back home.” And even though Babe thought that was crazy, because it was only October, he also found it strangely charming, and he looked forward to all the ways he could keep Gene warm.

And now here they sat, eating breakfast after just having come from Luz’s place, where they’d dropped off the cloaking charm that Gene had made for that hunter, Carwood Lipton. Babe still didn’t like the way the hunter looked at Gene, but the man had been polite, and grateful, and so Babe had decided to let it go for the moment. Luz seemed willing to vouch for the man, and though Luz could be a bit…difficult, and annoying at times, Babe trusted him. And anyway, the hunter seemed to have much bigger problems than them. A demon. Stalking him. Babe shuddered, and fixed his gaze on his…what? What were they, exactly? Boyfriends? Lovers? Friends with benefits? 

Gene watched him from under his dark lashes and Babe knew that he was waiting, patiently, for Babe to ask what he’d brought him here to ask. 

He’d kept his mouth shut about it, more or less, for the last day, but it was too much, really, to let it go any longer than this. And Gene had promised to tell him, _later, _he’d said. Babe tapped his fingers nervously on the table and ignored his own coffee and bagel, despite Gene’s prodding that he needed to eat.

“So,” Babe said, clearing his throat nervously. He cast his gaze around, but no one was listening to them where they huddled in their booth. Outside, the early morning sunshine lit up the street. “Demons.”

Gene nodded. “Yep.”

Babe snorted. “Come on, Gene. You said you’d tell me.”

Gene’s brows pulled down, concerned. “You sure you wanna know?”

“Look, I admit, I neva’ thought demons’d be somethin’ I had to worry about, but then I hadn’t imagined witches or werewolves either.” Gene winced, just slightly, and Babe reached across the table to grasp at Gene’s pale fingers. “It’s just… this is a part of my life now, I guess. And since I’ve met you, I’ve heard the word demon more than the rest of my life combined, and I’m Catholic, for Christ’s sake.” Babe took a long, calming breath, and shot his gaze around the room again. Still, no one paid them any attention. He probably should’ve chosen a less public place for this conversation, but he didn’t want to drag Gene back into the stifling closeness of the house, where they’d been pent up for days. “It seems to be a running theme with you, Gene, and I just need ta know.”

“It’s a bit of a story, Edward.”

“I’ve got time, Gene. Tell me. Please.”

Gene stared at him, dark eyes assessing, before his lips pressed thin in a resigned half-grimace. “Alright.”

* * *

_Seven years ago…_

_The bass pulsed through him, singing in his veins, pounding against his ribs in time with his heart, as the strobe lights flashed above them, casting their shadowy, sweaty faces into bursts of light—red lips, pale faces, dark eyeliner, hard, lean, bodies clinging to each other in a mass that moved to the club’s insatiable beat. Gene closed his eyes and allowed the music to direct his body, hips swaying and grinding, the hands of two different people sliding over his shoulders and arms, and neck, wrapping around his waist, pulling him close. The woman leaned up on her toes and pressed her lips to his as the bass boomed, huffing a laugh when the man behind him tugged Gene’s hips back against his own, so that Gene could feel him. Gene’s brain swam with the bourbon, but he allowed both of them to tug him back and forth between them, sighing into his ear, breath hot against his neck, fingers sliding up under his shirt. Around them, other bodies pressed close, enraptured in their own blissful, mindless haze. _

_This wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Gene had been to this nightclub for three nights in a row, and each night, he caught the eye of someone else. Tonight, these two seemed content to share his attention, and Gene was happy simply to not have to think too long. So, he surrendered to them and allowed them to do what they liked, fingers becoming more daring as the beat transitioned to the next pounding, driving song. The crowd pressed close, shrouding them, and no one cared._

_Later, after he’d sweated the haze of alcohol from his blood, he wandered home along the narrow, lonely streets of New Orleans, passing others occasionally along the way as they, mostly tourists, stumbled back to their hotels for the night. Gene allowed his feet to lead him, by rote, toward Magdalena’s, and a bed with Gene’s name on it. Two blocks from the shop, Gene stopped, head cocked in the direction of an alleyway, where he heard a soft hiss and could’ve sworn he saw a shadow dart. A shudder went down his spine as he remembered all of the recent news reports of missing young men and girls. He stared into the darkness, but then after a moment of looking and no movement, Gene let out a breath and shrugged, assuming it’d just been a stray cat. He carried on his way. _

_The shop was dark when he arrived, only the streetlight across the road casting it in a pale glare, as he made his way around back and up to the apartment above. His hand was steady at the lock and he pushed his way inside, barely remembering to twist the lock behind him before he kicked off his boots and dragged himself into the bedroom where he proceeded to collapse, face-first, onto the thin mattress and pass out._

_Gene woke and showered early, glancing in the mirror at the still-new ink on his hip as he did so, swallowing the swell of emotion that threatened to choke him, again, and moved quickly under the spray of hot water. It felt good to wash off the sweat and smoke of the club, the scent of perfume and cologne still clinging to his skin and hair, the lingering trace of lipstick and saliva from his neck. It felt good to let it all wash down the drain, so that when Gene stepped out of the shower and dressed quickly in jeans and a dark t-shirt, he was finally something like himself again and not… that._

_He made his way quickly downstairs to open up Magdalena’s, a quaint little apothecary that Gene had been able to find work at relatively easily. Magdalena liked to put on a show for the tourists who managed to find their way through her door, using parlor tricks for fortune telling, communion with the dead, and just a splash of Voodoo. But despite that, she actually knew what she was about when it came to herbal magic and medicine, and she’d been impressed by Gene when he’d shown up, looking for a job. She’d offered him the job and a place to stay in exchange for his agreement to open the store early every day so that she wouldn’t have to. Naturally an early riser, Gene had agreed easily._

_He’d been in New Orleans for two months already and it hadn’t gotten any easier. He still felt lost, alone, drowning in a sea of people who did not know him, could not know him. _

_It had been three months since his grandmother passed, but he felt the loss of her still, like a fresh wound in his soul, and he couldn’t seem to breathe properly most of the time. When he closed his eyes, he could still see her, smiling at him as they worked side by side in the kitchen, as she held his hand and guided him through the swamp. He could still remember the feel of her fingers as she brushed his dark hair from his eyes and told him that he’d done a good thing when he woke up, hours after he’d grasped the dying frog in his hands and healed it. _

_She’d gone, quick, in the middle of the night. There’d been nothing he or his mother could do about it._

_He hadn’t wanted to leave. He understood why he had to, but he hadn’t wanted to, and part of him was still a touch bitter at his mother for making him go. When she’d found him out on the porch of their home on that night, and taken his hands in her own, he’d sensed her own turmoil, stretching across the meager space between them. “Eugene,” she’d murmured, “mon chéri, it’s time you and I had a serious talk.”_

_And then she’d told him that it was time for him to go out on his own for a while, to see the world while he could, to learn a little bit about life in a way that she couldn’t teach him. “It’s not fair fo’ you to be trapped in the Bayou fo’ ya whole life, mon chéri, just because you are my son.”_

_“I’m needed here,” Gene had protested, his heart swelling with panic and pride and stubbornness. _

_“Not yet, my darlin’,” his mother had answered, “but someday you will be. Someday, these responsibilities will be yo’ own. You have a special light inside a’ you. Brighter than I’ve ever seen before. I want you to experience your life. I want you to meet someone who speaks to you. I want you to see what the world has to offer befo’ you return here.”_

_“Why now?” Gene had asked, tears clogging his throat._

_“Because you need to heal, sweetheart, and you will not do it here, surrounded by all a’ these memories. If you go, it will make you stronger. Believe me.”_

_And so Gene had packed his meager belongings and struck out to see the world. He’d made it as far as New Orleans before his feet stopped and refused to take him further. It might not’ve been far, but it certainly wasn’t home._

_He wasn’t sure, as he went about his business day after day, how his mother thought this might heal him. At night, he went out and he drank until his heart hurt a little less, and he drowned himself in strangers and sensation just so that he’d feel a little less alone, for a while at least. During the day, he sorted herbs and packaged remedies. Occasionally, a professional would come into Magdalena’s and Gene could have an interesting conversation. He learned things sometimes, from those chance meetings. Magdalena herself taught him some things when she wasn’t entertaining tourists. But by and large, his days were quiet, stagnant, and then the night came and he started all over._

_A few weeks into his stay, he’d woken himself with tears and the memory of his grandmother holding him close on her knee as she sang him a prayer and showed him how to weave with her hands. Later that day, he’d found himself in a different part of the city with a sketch and a wad of cash in hand. The tattoo parlor he finally found was more than happy to help him out. _

_The needle hurt, but it also soothed something inside of him, and so Gene had lain there on the table, patient, serene, as the artist worked the black ink and the spell into his pale skin. It felt good to have it there. Maybe this was what his mother had meant about healing. “Yes,” he’d sighed to himself as the needle continued to work and blood welled lightly on his skin. This would heal him. _

_Back home, Gene had learned to heal others from a young age. Ever since the frog and the tears and the fainting spell. He’d learned to pray and he’d worked hard and he let the Lord use his body for his own miracles. The people who came seeking help from his grandmother smiled and called him “Doc” when he offered to help. For years, he’d learned how to ask for the healing and how to channel it into a person’s body until they were better._

_He’d never learned to heal himself, though, and now, here, hopeless, he wished he’d asked his grandmother how._

_Here, though. Here, lost and alone in the grimy streets of New Orleans, he wasn’t the “Doc,” and he wasn’t a healer of anything. He wasn’t special. Here, he was just Gene, the sad, quiet young man who worked at Magdalena’s during the day and tried to forget himself at night._

_It seemed, however, that certain things could not be forgotten, no matter how hard he tried._

_Even lost, trapped in his own grief, Gene noticed the missing as soon as he arrived._

_Spirits were nothing new to him—where he’d grown up, they’d wandered through the swamp at night, sometimes treading old paths of their own, sometimes calling out to him, beckoning him into the shallows where gators and cottonmouths lurked. Gene knew to stay to the paths, and he’d done that as a boy, walking hand in hand with his mother or grandmother as they took him into the depths. _

_He’d met Renee there when he was still a child, and she’d been different from the others. Aware. She’d never told him what happened to her, but she had told him that they were a lot alike. His mother had only ever had the vaguest sense of her, not like Gene, who could see her plain as day, who carried on conversations with her when he went into the swamp as a boy. She was one of his only friends and it never occurred to Gene that their friendship might be strange. She told him things about spirits, and the sorts of things they whispered to each other. She taught him spells that even his grandmother didn’t know. And above all, she told him to be cautious. His mother and grandmother had always told him to be careful with his name, but it was Renee that told him never to give it away. _

_He’d never understood what they meant by that._

_In New Orleans, spirits walked the streets just like everyone else, and the city was full of them. Layer upon layer of history bled through the sidewalks and melted through the walls. It welled up out of the earth and choked the air like humidity. Gene often felt that pulse of remnant energy and his fingers would tingle, letting him know that he wasn’t alone. But things were different here. These spirits were not his own. And there were too many of them: new, angry, distraught. Gene couldn’t help any of them. And so he kept his head down, and he minded his business._

_But some things were not so easily ignored. Gene noticed the flyers two weeks in._

_In a city like New Orleans, where the poor and unloved often wandered the streets for whatever they could find, people sometimes went missing for days, weeks, years, before anyone noticed, if they ever did. Flyers for missing people could be seen on every notice board of every café and bar that you walked into, on light poles, next to advertisements for parties and clubs and discount Voodoo. At night, he noticed the hushed whispers of the girls on the street corners who cast their eyes his way when he walked back from the club. He heard it on the radio and knew the upsurge in recent disappearances had made the national news. He thought of it every single night as he went out and gave himself into the hands of the city, dancing with strangers who didn’t know him and might not remember his face. He thought about it with every soft press of lips to his, and every swipe of warm hands—he didn’t remember their faces either. In a city like this, anonymity was the norm—they were all nameless, faceless, just passing through. But the missing—they were nowhere and everywhere, and Gene couldn’t escape them. Even Magdalena often looked at him with worry in her golden brown eyes and warned him, saying things like “Honey, you take care of yourself out there tonight. Heard today another girl went missing. There’s lots of sweet young men like yourself that’s gone missing, too.” _

_Every time, Gene promised that he’d be careful, but he never really was. He drank and he danced and he tried to forget himself. Even if just for a few hours. _

_One night, as Gene passed a church on his way to his usual haunt, he felt a pang of guilt in his belly so sharp he thought he might be sick. He gazed up at the muted stained-glass windows and the towering spire, and he could practically hear his grandmother’s voice. So, temporarily shrugging off his heavy apathy, he decided to step inside for a moment._

_It was not one of the larger churches in the city, but Gene preferred it this way. It was quiet, and apparently empty, except for the lines of wooden pews and the flicker of candles. Gene wandered up the aisle, crossed himself, and took a seat in one of the pews. He took a deep breath and allowed his shoulders to relax. The tattoo on his hip tingled, as if his grandmother herself were admonishing him for waiting so long to pray again. He hadn’t, actually, since her passing. He wasn’t sure why he decided to now, of all times, except that all the faces of the missing kept flickering past his eyes when he tried to sleep and tried to work and tried to drink himself into oblivion. So here, now, he closed his eyes and he began one of his grandmother’s prayers. He prayed for all of those lost girls and boys. Prayed for their safety, and prayed for their souls. He reached inside himself and pulled out all the caring he could—for all of those people, just like him: nameless, faceless, unknown. Lost in a city that didn’t care. Swallowed by something so dark you couldn’t remember what light was. So many. So many. Wandering, forever, lost and alone, now just another part of the city._

_Gene was mid-prayer when the candles began to flicker enough that it startled him and his voice hitched. He glanced around, but there was nothing there. He forced himself to take a deep, calming breath, and he unclenched his hands. The flickering stopped. _

_That same night, he drank a little less at the club, and he didn’t stay as long as he usually would have. He was agitated, and there was a deep fire that was building underneath his skin. It wouldn’t go away, but also he wasn’t sure he wanted it to. There were people out there who needed real help and here he was, feeling sorry for himself, trying to drown a sorrow that had already become a part of him. He knew that if his grandmother were still alive, she’d tell him to let it go. She’d tell him to breathe and to pray and to do what he could for those who were still here._

_So he kept his eyes open that night on his way back to his little apartment, but he saw nothing. Not a soul, not a spirit, not even a shadow. He shook his head at himself, not knowing what he’d expected._

_Two nights later, down near the water, it happened. It was late and Gene found himself walking aimlessly, with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He couldn’t sleep, but he couldn’t bring himself to go to the club again, either. Not since the church, not since he’d woken up and realized that he wasn’t the only one in pain. And so he walked, and he watched, and he kept his eyes open for a glimpse of one of the missing._

_Every so often, groups of laughing tourists passed him by, drunk, on their way to a club or a hotel or some such. But their numbers dwindled the closer he drew to the river. He probably shouldn’t have been there either, but he was._

_He was thinking about the strange way that his shadow fell in the gloom of the streetlights when he heard the hitch of breath and the muffled scream come from an alleyway up ahead. Suddenly, all of those missing faces flashed in Gene’s mind, and he started running. His feet slapping the pavement, breath heaving, he hurled himself around the corner, ready to confront whatever kind of man was hurting those girls, but he couldn’t have prepared himself for this._

_The young woman was bent backward, arms stretched out in front of her, awkward, hands curled into claws, grasping at air as she choked on…smoke? She was wreathed in it, like she was inhaling thick black car exhaust. Her whole body shook and she continued to contort herself at odd angles, twitching, gasping, and Gene felt himself stuck, trapped, horrified, and unable to move as he watched the smoke slide into her mouth and her ears and her eyes, and she tried to shriek but the sound came out muffled. And then, just as Gene thought his heart was going to beat right out of his chest, the girl stood regularly and ran her hands down her sides as if to brush off dust. She rolled her shoulders and cast her gaze to the side. Before she could see him, Gene pulled himself back onto the street and he waited there for one long, terrifying moment. Finally, he got control of his body again and peeked around the corner once more. The alley was empty._

_Still shaking, Gene allowed his body to do what it wanted and he ran all the way back to his apartment. He didn’t stop until he was safely inside with the door locked. Panting, he collapsed against it and closed his eyes. That was close. Too close. Forcing himself to stand, Gene moved to his kitchenette and pulled his container of salt from the cabinet. Then, methodically, he walked around the entire perimeter of his apartment laying a line of salt. When he was done, he moved back to his door and laid his hands against it and he prayed. He prayed hard, and he did something he’d seen his mother and grandmother do, but that he’d never had cause to do before. _

_He laid a ward, thick, into the very wood of the building. Against… well. _

_Gene’s hands shook and his mind whirled through every snippet he’d ever heard. Smoke and shadow. Souls. Deals. People gone missing._

_Gene swallowed, thickly, and the lights in his apartment flickered._

_He’d just seen a demon possess that girl._

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 1 of 2. The second will likely be up within the week.   
As always, comments are love and keep me motivated. Please let me know what you think! And feel free to come say hi on tumblr. I'm @realhunterswearplaid.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Answers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21015335) by [Lysel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysel/pseuds/Lysel)


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